


Faithful Friends Who Are Dear To Us

by lindsey_grissom



Series: Downton At Christmas [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, christmas drabble, inspired by Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 10:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13925004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lindsey_grissom/pseuds/lindsey_grissom
Summary: A quiet moment between Mrs Hughes and Mr Barrow during the festive season.





	Faithful Friends Who Are Dear To Us

He has barely lit his cigarette when the backdoor opens and she steps out, bundled up in coat and scarf. He can see her gloves sticking out from her pocket but she makes no move to put them on.

  
She smiles as she steps up beside him, her breath whisping out as white clouds around her mouth.

  
She says nothing and he digs into his pocket, pulls out his case and offers her a cigarette, isn’t surprised anymore when she takes one after only the briefest hesitation.

  
He lights it for her, cupping his hand around the end, fingers close enough to pick up the heat of her cheek, almost as hot as the flame against his palm.

  
She inhales deeply, drags it in so hard he can hear it. Holds it for a second, two, throws the quickest glance at the door before blowing it all back out in one exhale.

  
{Sometimes, when she is happy, when something has made her smile during the day, she will blow smoke rings out, will quirk her lip after and never tell him where she learnt that.}

  
He takes his own drags, lets the drug settle into him, smooth the rough edges of the day.

  
“You’re looking better, Mr Barrow.” She says and when he looks at her, he finds her eyes on him, studying him. “I’m glad of it.”

  
“Are you Mrs Hughes? I wonder if you can be.”

  
He cannot keep looking at her, can’t see the worry in her eyes, the concern. It’s easier when he thinks of her as the old Housekeeper, the Dragon. As just another person under Downton’s roof who dislikes him. Someone who would turn him away if they ever knew the truth of him, if they were confronted with it.

  
{Only she didn’t, did she? Not Mrs Hughes. Good, kind Mrs Hughes who couldn’t kick him when he was down, even when he told her how different he is, how not-normal his tastes are, his desires. Mrs Hughes who instead gave him tea laced with scotch. Who held his hand and patted his knee and promised him everything would be alright. That she would make sure that at worst he would be given a good reference. 

  
And she did it, somehow; between her and His Lordship he got to stay and Mr Carson doesn’t glare at him in the corridor any more than he always did, doesn’t avoid him or ignore him. And he has that reference, written by the Butler and Housekeeper, both of their names there to endorse him if he ever wishes to move on, one day. She gave him that option; slipped the letter beneath his bedroom door the night after the cricket match.}

He doesn’t like to think of her as being on his side, of being someone who respects him, likes him, perhaps even cares for him as she does the others. Because then he has to think about how he might like her too, a little. How he admires the way she has made herself irreplaceable to the Family, to Mr Carson and the maids. {How one day she won’t be here, like his father, like his mother, like Jimmy.} Has to consider her into his plans; how they might hurt her, make things harder for her {how one day if he isn’t careful she might turn away from him, like Miss O’Brien, like the Family}.  

  
Her fingers curl around his arm, squeeze him through his coat. He looks at them, flushed pink with the cold. “Why shouldn’t I be, Mr Barrow?”

  
He laughs, doesn’t fight the bitterness, flicks at the ash on his cigarette. “I’m sure Mr Carson could give you a list, Mrs Hughes. Or Mr Bates.” _Because you know me, Mrs Hughes. Because you know who I am,_ what _I am._

  
She huffs beside him, flicks away her own ash. He can feel her eyes on him. “And I’m sure you could give me a list against Mr Bates, or Miss Baxter.” She says pointedly. “Lord knows the police would like for us to believe that Anna is not someone to care for.”

  
And he remembers then with the break in her voice, how she had asked him not to cause trouble, how she had pleaded with him, her eyes weary, not to get involved, to make a bad situation worse. He wishes he had listened now, chosen differently. 

  
“What’s your point, Mrs Hughes?” He is tired tonight, it is Christmas Eve and he is already finished with Christmas. He has no one to buy for, no one to write to or wish a Merry day except these people he works with, most of who tolerate him at best. She squeezes his arm again, then pulls back her hand, tucks it into her coat pocket. 

  
“My point, Mr Barrow, is that I am glad you’re doing better than a few months ago. You had us worried for a time.”

  
He shakes his head, drops the last of the cigarette to the floor and grinds it beneath his heel. Looks at her finally and almost changes his mind at her honest smile, wonders what it would be like to confess everything to her; Jimmy, the injections, Phyllis Baxter’s words that he just can’t seem to get out of his head. “Now that I really can’t believe.” He scoffs instead, watches her smile tighten, just a little. 

  
“No, Mr Barrow. I don’t suppose you can.” 

  
She grinds her own cigarette into the floor, kicks it aside as though she won’t come back out here later with dustpan and brush and sweep it all away {she won’t have the Hallboys clear up after her, not when she’ll have already sent them home early tonight, and she won’t want her maids out here tonight in this chill}.

  
“Merry Christmas, Mr Barrow.” She says, pulls her hand from her pocket, fingers curled around a red papered box. “Dont stay out too long, you’ll catch a chill.” She nudges the gift into his hand with another soft smile, then turns and slips back into the House.

  
She will retire soon, a year or two and then she will be gone with Mr Carson and while he cannot wait to be Butler as he deserves, as is his due, while we will not allow _his_ Housekeeper so much leeway in decisions, so much control in the running of the house, he cannot help but fear the space she will leave behind. Cannot deny that it would be easier to take over with her there {on his side}, than without her.

  
But he has seen the looks between the Heads of Staff, knows they have purchased a property they rent out together, thinks there is more there than there should be between colleagues and friends. He knows how this will play out and he could stop it, has done much worse before, and they always disagree about something, it would be so easy to push that further, to make them argue, to fight, but…

  
He turns the gift over in his hands, the edges crisply folded, tied with a matching bow of ribbon, his name written carefully in one corner.

  
He shakes his head with a sigh, lights up another cigarette. 

  
He thinks he might actually miss her when she goes.


End file.
